So I been lazy on this day my day off, which as expected has become this deep sink where there is to be no real math to be done, though I am somehow reading yet more short fiction, with the hope that perhaps some of it will rub off and I will gain the sort of fluency I will need to make some of my own. Not so much a matter of imitative strokes, but more the direction of orienting myself, as it were, as this is not something I've given much thought to. It's also difficult, because old Alric, for all his ambitions in fictional directions (heehee: I'm going to have to blog that little one-liner), confesses not to often read women authors. Which seems rather important if I am to write biting SAPI fiction (At Alric's suggestion, "Straight Asian/Pacific Islander" is more clear-cut, with the requisite counterpart "GAPI").

See, I've been trying to blog about class-assumptions in fiction for some time now, but in all my attempts come across as something of a prig. But it's a big deal, still. Like at the year-end reception for the teachers at my school at the Brooklyn Marriott, where some teachers were unable to identify all the cheeses present--Cheddar, Havarti, Brie. I mean, brie, goddammit! This is not rocket science. So the point is that any work of fiction--any type of discourse, really--has class-assumptions about it which can be difficult to somehow overcome--and this is the hesitancy that I feel, though of course it's deeper than this one trivial manifestation--I just don't quite know how to verbalize it yet. But I feel this way about most art, which is, I realize, somehow foolish, but perhaps no more foolish than some soaring praise of the universality of art and beauty and all that. I guess I recognize the barriers but have yet to rest upon their ultimate significance. And it's not as if I don't love a good Waugh story.